


omnia vincit amor

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 01:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19416091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: To say that he and Clarke Griffin don’t get along would be an understatement.Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin positivelyloatheeach other.Ever since their first year when they met on the train they’ve been snapping and fighting and hexing each other all different ways. He would curse her so she couldn’t taste anything for an entire week and she’d retaliate by replacing his shampoo with bubotuber pus.They were both definitely a sight to behold and no one ever dares to get in the middle of them when they really get going. The last person to do so was Wells Jaha and he ended up being admitted to the hospital wing with three arms and coughing up hairballs. From then on everyone kept a wide berth whenever Clarke and Bellamy were in the vicinity of one another just for the sake of keeping all of their limbs.





	omnia vincit amor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Who_Needs_Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/gifts).



> For Meha, my fellow cockroach, who I promised this fic since forever. It's been the bane of my existence for the past few months and I'm sure it'll continue to be the bane of my existence until I finish it.
> 
> Huge shout out to Medha who came in during the final hour and helped me edit this chapter when I was drowning in words. This chapter was supposed to be 6k, maybe 8k at most y'all. Clearly that figure doubled despite my best efforts to contain it but oh well. This first chapter is a little bit on the slow side but it's tagged slowburn for a REASON so don't @ me about it. Things start getting juicy in the next chapter (which I'm beginning to realise is probably going to be as long as this one jfc)
> 
> Also, I'm firmly in the 'Bellamy Blake is a Hufflepuff' camp but Meha bullied me into making him into a Gryffindor for this fic. If anyone is as obsessed with sorting characters as I am, you can read my Why Bellamy Blake is a Hufflepuff essay [here](https://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/post/161604813856/dude-i-would-love-to-read-an-essay-about-bellamy)
> 
> Long ass author's note aside, there is some mention of underage drinking in this chapter as well as the rest of the fic so you've been warned about that and yes, everything in the harry potter universe belongs to me until joanne gets her shit together.

On the first day back to Hogwarts, Bellamy is late for class.

It’s all Miller’s fault really.

“I can’t believe you got stuck in the fucking trick stair,” he grunts, trying to brace himself on the railing as he slides his hands under Miller’s armpits and tugs up. “This is our fourth year and you still don’t know how to fucking jump it.”

“Shut up and just get me out of here, Blake,” he grumbles.

“I’m  _ trying _ ,” Bellamy says with a roll of his eyes. “You’re a bit heavy  _ Nathan _ .”

Miller snorts and mutters something about him not being a wizard and yeah, okay, maybe Bellamy forgot that magic can be helpful in situations like this. 

So he pulls out his wand and mutters a quick  _ Levicorpus _ just because.

Miller swears as he’s suddenly pulled upward into the air by his ankle and his books go flying everywhere, but at least he’s out of the step. Bellamy mutters the countercourse and he lands in a rumpled, cursing heap at the foot of the stairs.

“Seriously?” he huffs.

He shrugs. “Well it got you out, didn’t it?”

Miller rolls his eyes. “You’re unbelievable,” he says before flicking his wand and muttering  _ Accio  _ to collect his books. He glances at his watch. “Indra is going to turn us into a pair of scarab beetles for being late.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Can it Blake before I turn you into a scarab beetle myself.”

“Oh please, you’d actually have to be good at Transfiguration for that to happen.”

They continue to bicker back and forth as they jog down to the dungeons for Potions. The incident in the stairwell had set them back a few minutes and the door to the classroom was already pulled shut.

Bellamy nudges him with his shoulder and says “You first,” to which Miller pulls a face. Professor Indra was a notable hardass.

She’s already inside when Miller finally works up the courage to push the door open but it’s clear that class hasn’t technically started as yet. However she still gives them a stern glare and docks five points from Gryffindor for their tardiness as they stand shamefacedly in the doorway.

Once she’s satisfied with their berating she tells them to take their seats and turns back around to resume writing the teaching plan on the chalkboard.

The only available seats were next to Clarke Griffin, a Slytherin, and Jasper Jordan, a fellow Gryffindor. Professor Indra had a rule that whoever you sat next to was to be your partner for the rest of the year.

Bellamy and Miller glance at each other and then back at the almost full classroom and a minor scuffle occurs that Indra luckily does not see as they both try to get to the seat next to Jasper.

Miller wins, but only because he’s currently at least a head taller than Bellamy. He underwent a massive growth spurt over the summer, one which Bellamy is still waiting for.

“Prick,” he hisses as he slowly trudges over to the front of the class where Clarke sits.

“Consider it payback for  _ Levicorpus- _ ing me in the stairwell,” Miller shoots back at him and Bellamy flashes him a rude gesture as he slides into the seat next to Clarke.

She doesn’t acknowledge him as he sits down and starts rifling through his bag. She’s already taking notes on a thick piece of parchment, using an ornate green quill with delicate gold detailing on the sides of the feather. Bellamy just rolls his eyes and pulls out a spiral bound notebook and a box of pens he picked up at the bookshop in his town. He doesn’t for the life of him know why Hogwarts still insists on using those things but he, as well as most muggleborns and even some other halfbloods, have taken to writing their notes out in notebooks using pens and pencils. Most professors don’t have a problem with it once they turn in their essays on rolls of parchment.

He scoffs when she has to stop and dip her quill into a pot of ink and she kicks him under the table without even breaking concentration.

To say that he and Clarke Griffin don’t get along would be an understatement.

Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin positively  _ loathe  _ each other.

Ever since their first year when they met on the train they’ve been snapping and fighting and hexing each other all different ways. He would curse her so she couldn’t taste anything for an entire week and she’d retaliate by replacing his shampoo with bubotuber pus.

They were both definitely a sight to behold and no one ever dares to get in the middle of them when they really get going. The last person to do so was Wells Jaha and he ended up being admitted to the hospital wing with three arms and coughing up hairballs. From then on everyone kept a wide berth whenever Clarke and Bellamy were in the vicinity of one another just for the sake of keeping all of their limbs.

Now Bellamy could feel all the eyes on the back of his head as he shares a desk with her, scribbling out the lesson plan as it appears on the chalkboard. They’re not brewing anything today, just recording the recipe for a Deflating Draught that they’ll be making next Thursday.

“Do you have any armadillo bile in your kit?” she says mid way through the class when Professor Indra gives them a few minutes to acquaint themselves with the new ingredients they’ll be working with this term. 

“No,” Bellamy says, looking at his scant potions kit. He only buys the mandatory ingredients, the bare basics that form the backbone of most potions, and can’t really afford much more. Most of the time he doesn’t have to since Hogwarts provides them with extra supplies.

Meanwhile Clarke’s kit is practically bursting at the seams and he only lets a tiny bit of his bitterness seep through when he says, “But I’m sure you have it since mummy bought the whole apothecary for you.”

Clarke glares at him. “It’s called being prepared, you git,” she sniffs, closing the kit with a decisive ‘snick’. “Something I doubt you know about.”

“I’d rather not waste my hard earned galleons on something that’s most likely going to go down the drain,” he says coolly and she huffs.

“You know what, fine. Whatever. I’ll just get another bottle of armadillo bile.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“ _ Super. _ ”

“You just always have to have the last word, don’t you?” she asks, finally looking at him, really looking at him and not the sidelong glances she’s been giving him this whole time.

Bellamy flashes her a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “With you Princess? Always.”

Professor Indra calls the class back to order, effectively ending that conversation as she docks ten points from Slytherin when Murphy and Mbege get caught playing catch with a dragon liver.

Clarke shoots him a quick glare as she pulls out her potions textbook and he continues to smile, flipping to the section on antidotes as Indra begins her lecture for the day.

* * *

“I’m going to  _ murder _ you,” he announces when he finally catches up to Miller once Potions is done. They have Transfiguration next with Professor Anya and they’re both legging it to get there in time.

“What did I do?”

Bellamy huffs. “Clarke fucking Griffin? Really?”

Miller shrugs but doesn’t look too upset by the fact. “At least she’s a good student. Jasper is going to make sure our cauldron blows up on Thursday. I can feel it.”

“I hope it blinds you,” Bellamy declares before pushing the door to the classroom open.

The have Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs this year which is a merciful reprieve from being stuck in the dungeons with the Slytherins for two hours this morning and then another two hours after lunch for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Bellamy was just about ready to  _ Avada _ himself when he saw that he had to spend every Monday with the company of Clarke Griffin and her sleazy band of Slytherins.

The hour passes quick enough with Anya just going through the syllabus for this semester before assigning a twelve inch essay on the history of vanishing spells.

Bellamy heads to lunch, making sure to leave plenty of time to get to class after just in case Miller falls into another trick step. Although this time Bellamy has half a mind to leave him there if it does happen.

“Surprised you’re not late again,” drawls Clarke when he joins the queue outside the door to Professor Luna’s classroom. “What? No little firsties to hex on your way here?”

“Hilarious,” he deadpans. “No one is surprised that you’re one of the first ones here, Griffin. We all know your only friends are professors and their books.”

Clarke’s cheeks reddened as a few of their fellow classmates snicker at his jab. “Oh fuck you, Blake.”

“With pleasure, princess.”

It goes like that whenever they see each other for class, one of them will start things by making a snide comment about the other, someone will retaliate and then, more often than not, wands are drawn and everyone within a ten foot radius prays that they don’t get hit by a stray jelly legs jinx or nose bleeding charm.

That’s just the way things are.

Just as it’s expected for Professor Anya to assign mountains of homework and Professor Sinclair is bound to set at least one thing on fire each class, weekly-- sometimes even  _ daily _ \-- fights are bound to break out between Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin.

“You’re stirring it the wrong way,” he hisses during their first potions practical, pushing her away from the cauldron that was a sickly shade of yellow and bubbling away violently instead of pale butterscotch simmering at low heat. 

“Well you don’t need to be such a brute about it,” she snaps, dusting off her robes. Usually Bellamy would apologise for shoving her so hard but right now he was too focused on saving their potion which looked like it was just a few moments away from exploding.

“And you could maybe learn the difference between clockwise and counterclockwise,” he snaps right back at her. “What, they never teach you these things in all of your rich bitch classes?”

Clarke’s face is an angry shade of red and she grabs the spoon out of his hands and goes back to stirring, the correct direction this time. “They taught me a lot of things in my  _ rich bitch _ classes,” she harrumphs, “Including how to salvage a ruined potion. Hand me the salamander blood.”

He rolls his eyes but does as he was told, plucking a crystal vile from her kit. She upends the entire bottle into the potion and the violent bubbling slowly subsides into a gentle simmer. It’s still the colour of sick though, and Clarke is beginning to look appropriately distressed. Bellamy snatches the spoon back.

“Go finish chopping up the newt eyes and hand me some bitter root,” he tells her.

“You could at least say  _ please _ .”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Oh darling Clarke, light of my life, would you  _ please _ finish chopping up the newt eyes and hand me some bitter root.”

“You’re such a prick.”

“A prick who’s trying to get us a pass in this potion.”

“I was the one who stopped it from exploding!”

“Yeah, after you couldn’t tell the difference between clockwise and counterclockwise!”

“You’re such an asshole,” she snarls, shoving the bowl of roughly chopped newt’s eyes into his hands.

“And you’re an insufferable know it all who can’t stand the fact that she’s wrong sometimes,” he snaps back at her, grabbing the bowl and chucking the contents into the cauldron before giving it seven and a half counterclockwise turns. The potion lightens considerably, getting closer to that butterscotch colour than the mucous-y shade it was before. 

He smiles triumphantly as he turns towards her. “This is where you’d say  _ thank you, Bellamy _ .”

“Burn in hell you rotten toe fungus,” she huffs, jabbing him in the chest for good measure.

They don’t speak to each other for the rest of the class unless it’s to ask for an ingredient or to tell the other when to stir. When it’s finished, they bottle and stopper the potion in one of the crystal vials Clarke carries in her kit and carries it up to the front desk. It’s a bit darker than it should be but when it’s tested on an inflated frog, almost all the air whizzes out of it like a balloon let loose. Professor Indra gives them an eight out of ten for it and once again Bellamy mouths a mocking ‘thank you, Bellamy,’ to Clarke.

He receives an elbow to the gut just as he hears Miller swear out loud at Jasper for adding too much ground dung beetles followed by an alarmingly loud  _ boom! _ that leaves the two of them covered in head to foot luridly fluorescent yellow goo.

* * *

By the time October rolls around, Bellamy has a steady routine.

He goes to all of his classes and on Tuesdays and Saturdays he works on Charms and History of Magic essays with Raven in the library. He and Clarke still bicker all the time, especially in Potions where they’re always two seconds away from tossing the other in the cauldron, but they manage to put it aside enough to work on whatever concoction they’re brewing that day. They’re both highly competitive and sort of crazy about their grade and he’s pleased to admit that they’ve yet to get lower than a seven on something that they’ve handed up.

However, October means quidditch, and quidditch means that his newfound routine is in shambles.

“I have two feet of ancient runes homework that I need to be working on,” Bellamy grumbles as Miller and Jasper parade him out of the great hall and down to the quidditch pitch. “I don’t have time for this.”

Bellamy, to put it lightly, does not care about quidditch.

He doesn’t like flying, broomsticks are  _ uncomfortable _ , and the entire sport just seems unnecessarily dangerous.

However, both Jasper and Miller are on the Gryffindor team as seeker and beater respectively, which means that whenever there’s a match they drag him down to the pitch, much to his annoyance.

Miller snorts. “Then maybe you should’ve thought of that instead of playing with that damned cat all night.”

His cheeks warm. “I wasn’t  _ playing  _ with it.”

“You’re the only one in this entire castle that Roland allows to touch him,” says Jasper. “You were playing with him.”

“I was just trying to figure out how he got in the tower again,” Bellamy tries to defend himself while the others continue to needle him.

“Yeah, because the fucking cat would be able to tell you,” Miller says with a roll oof his eyes and Bellamy’s flush darkens.

“Oh sod off.”

Roland is a very large, very temperamental orange presian that roams the castle. He’s notorious for hating almost everyone and most people who’ve attempted to pet him always leave with bloodied red scratches down the length of their hands. Bellamy is the only who he actually seems to like, somehow finding himself in Gryffindor tower to sleep in the patch of sunlight in the boys’ dormitory more often than not.

Roland also belongs to none other than Clarke Griffin, a fact which Miller and Jasper love to remind him of.

(“Think of what all this fighting is doing to your child,” Jasper wailed dramatically one time when Bellamy and Clarke were in the midst of a fight one time. He then proceeded to spend an entire weekend in the hospital wing as Healer Jackson tried to get rid of the wings that sprouted from his back and the worms that crept out of every orifice.)

Today’s game was between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, although Bellamy wouldn’t even care if it was between his own house and someone else.

There’s still about a half hour before the game is set to start so the stands are mostly empty. Jasper drags them to sit by Monty, who’s chatting with Wells Jaha and Maya Vie in the Hufflepuff stands. Clarke is sitting next to them, a Hufflepuff scarf undoubtedly stolen from Wells wrapped around her neck and quidditch playbook open on her lap.

There’s an empty seat next to her and Bellamy decides to plop down on it, because why not?

“Morning Griffin,” he says, grabbing her book before she can even react. “Are you seriously taking notes on all of this?”

“Give it back,” she says, trying to stretch and take it from his grasp. It doesn’t work.

Bellamy ignores her. “What the hell is a  _ Porksoff Ploy _ ?”

The book is suddenly ripped from his hands and when he looks up Clarke has her wand in one hand and the playbook in the other. He just grins at her.

“I was simply trying to educate myself,” he tells her and she sniffs.

“Maybe I might believe that if I wasn’t there to see you get hit in the face by your broom in first year,” she taunts, sickly sweet.

Behind them their little crowd of friends guffaw with laughter and Bellamy feels the tips of his ears warm. 

“I did not get hit in the face.”

“It’s alright,” she says solemnly, patting his shoulder. “Happens to the best of us.”

“You are the most irritating person I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing,” he announces and Clarke shoots him a baleful glare.

“You’re the one who chose to sit next to me. I was fine making notes by myself before.”

Bellamy doesn’t have a good comeback for that so instead he switches gears and says, “Reginald was in our dorm again. He threw up in Miller’s trunk.”

“He threw up on my  _ dress robes _ ,” Miller grumbles, throwing a weak glare at Clarke.

She glares right back at him. “First of all his name is  _ Roland-- _ ”

“--which is an absolutely stupid name for a cat--”

“And second of all,” she continues, ignoring Bellamy’s interjection, “You act like we don’t live in a castle and the house elves haven’t already washed and pressed and left them on your bed.”

Miller sniffs disdainfully. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Oh principle my arse--”

“Settle down children,” cuts in Wells. He nods his chin towards the pitch. “Game’s about to start. Clarke, Bellamy, if you two have to fight please take it outside. I don’t want to have to go to the hospital wing to get donkey ears removed again.”

They both do as they’re told but not before shooting a dirty look at Wells, one which he absolutely ignores.

The game isn’t a particularly interesting one. Ravenclaw is clearly as a disadvantage, having to replace three of their players this year and it’s clear that they’re still trying to figure out how to work as a team. Hufflepuff uses this to their advantage and manages to score twice in the first ten minutes of the game.

For Bellamy, it looks the same as always. Fourteen players flying around on a pitch, dodging and swerving bludgers coming towards them at breakneck speeds while lobbing a quaffle back and forth between them as coach Roan flies around them, calling fouls and rewarding penalties as needed.

But, as he looks over at Clarke, it’s clear that she sees something else in its entirety. Her playbook is already filled with the neat loops of her cursive as well as several tiny diagrams of the players on the pitch and as much as it pains him to admit, he’s slightly impressed at her attention to detail.

“You’re really serious about all of this, huh,” he says during a timeout about twenty minutes later.

Clarke glances at him. “Well yeah,” she says after a moment, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have to be if I want to make captain next year.”

His eyebrows lift. “You think you might be captain next year?”

She gives a half shrug, clearly embarrassed about telling him this but trying to hide it. “If Byrne puts in a well enough word for me then yeah. Anya might consider it.”

He whistles lowly. “Fifth year and captain? Isn’t that a little… much?”

“I can manage it,” she says determinedly and Bellamy can’t help but smile a bit.

“If anyone can, it’s you,” he says, and it’s her turn for her eyebrows to shoot up.

“Did Bellamy Blake just compliment me?” she teases, knocking her shoulder into his.

He scratches at the back of his neck, ears going red. “Maybe. Don’t get used to it, princess.”

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They’re back to their regularly scheduled bickering by the time the game is done with Hufflepuff solidly trouncing Ravenclaw 260 to 80. Bellamy hexes her toenails to grow so fast that they tear through their shoes while she curses his hair so that it’s horrendously clashing shades of neon green and orange.

* * *

The first Hogsmeade trip of the year is carded for the weekend after the Ravenclaw/ Hufflepuff match and Bellamy goes with Roma Bragg.

He’s not really much for dating, but both Miller and Jasper have quidditch practice in preparation for their game tomorrow against Slytherin and he’s not particularly close to anyone else in his dorm, so yesterday during lunch he charmed a note into a paper airplane to float over to where she sat further down the table and she agreed to come with him.

It’s not really a date and they both know it. Bellamy and Roma have progressively been on and off make out buddies since third year and while physically their relationship might be something more, emotionally it was not.

They wander around the shops for a few hours before grabbing lunch with Roma’s friends in the Three Broomsticks. After, she tells him that she’s going to run to Scrivenshafts for some new quills and Bellamy decides to wait outside, ambling through Main Street. 

He spots Clarke standing outside the quidditch shop holding a small bag and talking to Finn Collins. If he squints, he can make out that she’s blushing ever so slightly and he decides to have some fun with it.

“ _ Accio _ ,” he mutters, pointing his wand at her bag. It goes flying from her hands and she shrieks. Bellamy catches it with a triumphant smirk and looks inside, only to find a tin of broomstick wax.

“Bellamy Blake,” she huffs, stomping over to where he stood in the shade.

“Can I help you, princess?”

“Give it back.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Give it back and I won’t hex your balls off,” she says, vitriol masked with honey.

“Aw come on princess, I was just having some fun,” he pouts as he hands her back the bag. “How come you’re in Hogsmeade? I thought with a game tomorrow you’d be going crazy and drilling your team.”

“Practice starts at two as soon as your guys get off the pitch,” she says, baring her teeth at him in a bad impression of a smile. “Tell Jasper I can’t wait to wipe the field with his scrawny ass tomorrow.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m not getting involved in your shenanigans.”

“Right. You prefer to shenanagin all by yourself,” she says, snatching the bag from him.

Bellamy grins brightly. “That’s right.” He looks over her shoulder where Finn is still standing awkwardly at the entrance to the quidditch supply store, trying not to make it obvious that he’s staring at Bellamy and Clarke. “You better head back to lover boy. I don’t want to interrupt your date since you only have,” he glances down at his wristwatch, “Thirty seven minutes left before you head off to practice.”

Clarke’s cheeks flare firetruck red. “We’re not on a date,” she tells him, “Finn was just helping me find the right kind of wax for my broom.”

Bellamy just grins wider. “Right. Of course.”

Clarke Griffin is a quidditch fanatic. Her dad is one of the top broom designers in the Wizarding World and she’s been flying since before she could walk properly. Bellamy highly doubts that she was taking broom care advice from  _ Finn Collins _ of all people.

Her blush deepens. “Fuck off, Bellamy,” she says in that prim and proper voice, the one that was the whole reason for him calling her princess.

“Alright, I’m going, I’m going,” he says, walking away with his hands up in surrender. “Have fun with your new wax at practice,” he calls after her, and Clarke flashes him her middle finger behind her back as she walks off with Finn.

He catches up with Roma shortly after and offers to buy her a butterbeer for the road. After all, there’s not much else left to do and he rather head back now than get stuck behind a group of third years getting pat down by Filch.

They head back to the Gryffindor tower together and Roma just waves at him before she flounces off to join her friends in front of the fireplace. Meanwhile Bellamy heads upstairs to finish his Arithmancy homework and write a letter to his mum. He always sends a small package home with sweets and little knick knacks that he picks up in the sale bin at Zonko’s for Octavia and Aurora.

Roland is there spread out across his bed when he comes in and Bellamy absentmindedly scratches his belly as he flips through his textbook.

By the time Miller and Jasper get back to the dorm, he’s down to the last two questions that he can’t quite figure out despite how much he consults his number charts.

“How was practice?” he asks, quickly retracting his hand when Roland hisses and attempts to swipe at Jasper.

“Good,” says Miller, dropping his bag on the bed.

“Clarke said to tell you that she’s gonna wipe the field with your scrawny ass tomorrow,” he tells Jasper and he pulls a face.

“Yeah, I heard,” he says, “She was there when we were leaving the showers and told me herself. Can’t you, I don’t know, pick a fight with her and turn her hair purple or something before the game tomorrow?”

Bellamy levels him with a glare. “I’m not going to help you  _ cheat _ .”

“It’s not cheating! It’s strategy! Tell him Miller.”

“Keep me out of this.”

“Last time I spoke to Clarke before a game she almost concussed me with a beater’s bat. I’m good thanks.”

Jasper pouts. “Fine. But when she straight up murders me on the field tomorrow you have no one but yourselves to blame.”

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll write you a touching eulogy. Maya might even cry for you.”

Game day brings with it the first touch of autumn, a crisp wind that nips at your nose and Bellamy finds himself digging through his trunk for this red and gold scarf. It’s the only thing he uses to show house support at the games but this time before he could sit in the stands next to Monty and Raven, Harper accosts him and drapes tinsel and sparkles and metallic streamers all over him like he’s some sort of sentient Christmas tree.

“You look festive,” a voice says from behind him and he turns to find Clarke, broomstick in hand and decked out in her quidditch uniform. She’s wearing a form fitting emerald and silver jumper with dark green leggings and tall, dark boots.

Bellamy smirks at her. “House pride,” he says. “You know, for when we crush you snakes.”

Her smile is dangerous. “That’s cute that you think so,” she says, reaching up to pat his cheek. Her palms are cold against his skin.

Someone calls out her name from behind them and Clarke allows her face to go serious, getting into game mode.

“I gotta go. Come find me after I crush you guys. I want to claim your tinsel as a prize.”

“As if. I told Miller to make sure he knocks you off your broom.”

“Nathan wouldn’t dare.”

“Would he though?”

There’s another shout and this time she looks back at Byrne standing at the door of the Slytherin lockers.

“See you around Blake.”

“Try not to fall off your broom, princess.”

Bellamy makes it to the stands just before Roan blows the whistle to start the game. He’s sitting with Monty and Harper and the rest of the Gryffindor girls, and Wells comes to join them, taking the good natured boos easily for having Clarke’s Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck.

The game is messy from the start, like most Slytherin/ Gryffindor games. Almost every few minutes someone is getting fouled or having to take a penalty shot and by the time the half an hour mark rolls around, more than half the players are bruised and bloody thanks to the work of the beaters. He can hear Niylah from the commentator’s box going on about the types of maneuvers and formations the players take as they pass the quaffle between them but he doesn’t pay that much attention to it.

Near the one hour mark the crowd is getting antsy and he can see that the players themselves are starting to feel fed up. Byrne is getting sloppy with her beating and Macallan fumbles his shot with the quaffle. Clarke is beneath him, waiting to catch it, and she zooms down to the other end of the pitch. Miller hits a bludger at her and she ducks, but not fast enough, leaving her with a bloody nose. Still, she manages to sink the quaffle neatly through the hoops and fist pumps as she brings the score up to 190 for the Slytherins, giving them a 3 goal lead.

Just then, Jasper dips down from where he’s been circling the pitch, barrelling towards the earth at an almost ninety degree angle. Murphy is all the way on the end of the pitch and there’s no hope for him reaching in time, but he still shoots off behind him, but before he could even pull into a dive, Jasper is flying back up, hooting in celebrating as he holds the snitch in his hand.

The crowd roars with cheering and Bellamy finds himself standing among them, yelling right along.

The Gryffindor team floats down in a giant dogpile on to the pitch where Jackson is ready and waiting to heal all their wounds. He sees Clarke shove him away before he can set her nose to rights and Bellamy just cheers louder.

Later, in the midst of all the celebration back at Gryffindor tower, Bellamy finds Roland and ties the ribbon around his neck, all red and gold, and sends him back down to the dungeons to his real owner.

The next morning Clarke transfigures his eggs into red and gold confetti mid bite and Bellamy is stuck picking it out of his teeth for the rest of the day.

* * *

The newfound peace between Bellamy and Clarke is short lived.

“The ashwinder eggs need to be pulverised, do you even know how to use a mortar and pestle?”

“You’re one to talk, we were supposed to add five sprigs of dittany to it, not seven. What, they don’t teach you how to count in muggle schools?”

“Oh, see there we go again. I guess all  _ mudbloods _ are too dumb for Clarke Griffin.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Well that’s what it sounded like.”

“Ugh!” Clarke glowers at him as she slams the ladle down onto the bench with a loud  _ thwack! _ that garners the attention of everyone in class. “You just love to look for any possible reason to get mad at me and act like an ass.”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you, princess,” he snaps.

She gets all up into his space, prodding at his chest with a bony finger. “You’re nothing but an arrogant, selfish jackass who only cares about himself!”

Even without his growth spurt Bellamy is still taller than her, her stormy blue eyes level with his nose. “Yeah? And you’re an uptight, snobby  _ bitch _ who thinks she’s better than everyone!”

A loud crack rings out through the air as she slaps him and Bellamy looks at her, shocked, his cheek stinging. Clarke looks just as shocked as he does, as though she can’t believe that she had it in her to do that. 

“Mr Blake, Ms Griffin, what is the meaning of this?” asks an irate Professor Indra. “Yelling in the middle of class? Slapping another student? Twenty points each from both of your houses  _ and _ detention here with me tonight! Never in my life have I seen such behaviour…”

They both duck their heads and take their punishment shamefacedly. By the time Indra is done yelling at them, the rest of the class have gone back to work on their potions and Bellamy and Clarke are left to salvage theirs. They get a six on this one and Clarke doesn’t say a word to him as she grabs her stuff and sweeps out of the classroom.

“What was that all about?” asks Jasper when he and Miller finally catch up to Bellamy on his way to the Great Hall.

“Nothing,” he says, short.

“Seemed like a whole lot of something to me,” says Miller and Bellamy grunts.

“Well it was nothing,” he says. “It’s just Griffin being her usual uptight self. I would say someone should help her remove the massive stick up her ass, but she’s too much of a troll for anyone to even consider that.”

The other two boys snicker but it’s cut short when someone shoves past them. Bellamy catches a flash of blonde hair and his stomach drops all the way down to his feet.

“Clarke I--”

“ _ Don’t _ ,” she says, voice ragged as she whirls around to face him. Her eyes are glassy.

“Listen it was--”

“I said  _ don’t _ ,” she snaps, pulling out her wand and sending a curse his way before he could even react.

Bellamy’s legs snaps together and his body tips forward, hitting the floor with a dull thud. By the time Miller manages the countercourse, Clarke is gone and Bellamy is left the sickening feeling of guilt churning in his stomach.

They don’t have any more classes for the rest of the day so he heads to the great hall to try and choke down some dinner before going back up to the dorms where he swaps his uniform for an old pair of joggers and a t-shirt and heads to the dungeons for detention.

Indra is already there, surrounded by two piles of dirty cauldrons. On her desk are some gloves, scrubbing brushes, and cauldron cleaner. Clarke walks in a couple minutes later.

“Wands,” says professor Indra, holding out her palm.

They hand them over easily enough and she pockets them within her robes. “You’ll get these back later. Detention is until 8p.m. Try not blow anything up or kill each other.”

And with that she sweeps out of the dungeons, locking the door behind her.

He doesn’t say anything as he pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and gets to work, scrubbing at the burnt and congealed remnants of potions left behind in the cauldron. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Clarke struggling and he can’t help but say, “Lemme guess, princess never had to do the dishes at home.”

She ignores him, still fighting with the one cauldron and he sighs.

“Look,” he starts off, feeling entirely too awkward, “I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

“Would you still be sorry if I hadn’t heard it?” she asks after a few seconds of silence.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, “I was out of line. I don’t actually think you’re a troll.”

It almost gets her to crack a smile. “Thanks,” she says, voice flat, “That’s what was missing from my life. Validation that I really am attractive from Bellamy Blake.”

He huffs, biting back a smile. “See this is why I don’t apologise to you, you bloody git.”

“Sorry I can’t hear you over the sounds of you thinking I’m attractive.”

“I take it back. I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you,” he declares and she just grins wider.

“Oh, you’ve said  _ multiple _ nice things about me?” she says gleefully, “Careful there, Blake. I’m starting to think you might fancy me a little bit.”

“Yeah right,” he snorts, “That’ll only happen when hell freezes over.”

“You  _ like  _ me, you think I’m  _ pretty _ ,” she taunts, “You want to  _ date  _ me, you want to- argh!”

He throws a cauldron full of soapy water her way and Clarke manages to dodge most of it but it does manage to hit her right sleeve and splatter her skirt when it crashes to the ground. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Oh it’s on.”

By the time Indra comes back, the floors are soaked as are the two of them, but the cauldrons are all clean so she just sighs and casts a drying charm before sending them on their way.

* * *

The last Hogsmeade weekend of the term falls in late November, one week before they have their end of term quizzes and two before it’s time to go home for the Christmas hols.

This time he goes with Miller and Jasper and Monty, quidditch ending a few weeks back with Slytherin absolutely pulverizing Ravenclaw into nothingness during their match. Clarke scored six of their thirteen goals and she preened all week.

Bellamy tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulders as they walk through the town. There’s no snow, not yet, but the ground is already frozen solid and each morning they wake up to a thick layer of frost covering covering the castle grounds.

Jasper and Monty are still raving about the trinkets they picked up at Zonko’s when they trudge into the warmth of the Three Broomsticks and as such they’re bullied into buying the first round of drinks for everyone. Meanwhile he and Miller split up to try and find a table in the crowded bar.

He spots Clarke off to the corner, sitting in a booth by herself, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair falling around her shoulders in loose waves.

“Seat’s taken,” she says as soon as he slides in.

“Come on, princess,” he wheedles, “The place is packed and you have a booth all for yourself. Sharing is caring and all that.”

She snorts. “You act as if I actually care about you.”

“I’m wounded, Griffin.”

“Good. That ego of yours could use some deflating.”

“Brilliant, you managed to find a seat,” says Miller, popping up, “This whole bloody place is packed. Oh, hey Clarke.”

“Nathan,” she nods before turning back to glare at Bellamy. “Find another table, I’m not sharing.”

“Not even if I give you my butterbeer?”

She wrinkles her nose in mild disgust. “ _ Especially  _ if you give me your butterbeer. Besides, I’m getting my own.”

“Oh.” Bellamy’s eyes light up as he runs a more critical eye over her. “You’re on a  _ date. _ ”

She’s wearing a pair of tailored trousers and a dark blue jumper that matches her eyes and her hair is loose as opposed to her usual braid. Combined with the candy pink stain on her lips and the dark swipe of mascara on her eyes, it seems  _ obvious _ that she’s here with someone other than Wells.

Clarke blushes, sinking further down the chair, as if she was trying to melt into the cushions and Bellamy is absolutely delighted by her reaction.

“Shut up,” she tells him weakly.

“Come on, Griffin, spill,” says Miller, nudging her shoulder with his. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“None of your business,” she snaps, just as Monty and Jasper arrive with their drinks.

“Hey Clarke,” Monty says happily, handing out butterbeer around the table as Jasper complains about the length of the line. Bellamy nabs a chip from a passing basket and pops it in his mouth.

She huffs. “Seriously?” she says, “What part of get your own table don’t you understand?”

“Where’s loverboy?” asks Bellamy, completely ignoring her question as he slurps his drink. The butterbeer is warm and he sighs after taking the first sip.

She levels him with another glare. “Getting us butterbeers and something to eat. So you lot better hurry up and scram before he comes back.”

“What, you don’t want to introduce us to him?” asks Bellamy, obnoxiously chewing with his mouth open, “I thought we were friends.”

“Monty and Jasper are my friends. Miller is tolerable most times. You, Bellamy Blake, are not my friend,” she says, aiming a kick at him underneath the table.

“I’m hurt,” he says, sounding nothing of the sort.

“Good.”

“He’s taking awfully long to bring back a few butterbeers don’t you think,” says Bellamy a few moments later while Jasper and Monty were trying to throw fries in each other’s mouths.

“The place is packed. I can’t imagine how horrible the line is,” she says primly.

“Yeah but we got here after you and we’re almost done with our drinks,” he points out and Clarke doesn’t frown but she does avert her gaze, tracing circles into the worn wooden top of the table.

“He probably just got caught up talking to someone,” she maintains and Bellamy squints at her.

“If you say so,” he murmurs. He doesn’t say anything else on the topic but he does nudge his basket of chips closer to her while she chats with Monty about the newest Celestina Warbeck song and he pretends not to notice when she sneaks a few from it.

When they’re getting ready to leave, about thirty minutes later, Finn Collins finally shows up, looking ruffled and slightly out of breath and the conversation between the five of them dithers off.

“Here you go, princess,” he says, sliding her a bottle of butterbeer. Clarke is one of those people who has to have her butterbeer cold no matter the temperature. He knows this because he made fun of her for it before she hexed him silly.

The bottle Finn slings her way has condensation dribbling down the sides, no doubt close to room temperature by now, but Clarke still smiles at him and flicks off the cap.

“Thanks Finn,” she says before taking a sip.

When no one else speaks, Bellamy brings it upon himself to ask, “What, were they making the butterbeer or something?”

Clarke kicks him again under the table, this time harder, and he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth.

“Come on, Finn,” she says, pasting a sappy smile on her face. “Let’s go somewhere that has some more favourable company.” She shoots Bellamy a dirty look.

It’s a bit of a process for her to get out of the booth, having been pressed against the wall, and by the time she gets out, Bellamy and the others decide to call it a day and head back up to the castle.

He doesn’t really see Clarke much the next few days. Classes are pretty much finished, giving them time to study for their upcoming tests and finish all of their essays, so he doesn’t think much about it. After all, Bellamy’s been spending most of his time in the library, studying and cursing Professor Pike for making them write a four foot long essay on the properties of bubotuber pus and how to collect it.

Still, he’s not immune to the gossip that flies through the halls, and when they’re leaving Professor Sinclair’s classroom after the quiz, he hears two Ravenclaws up ahead talking about it.

“... cheated on her with Clarke Griffin…”

“I can’t believe she would do something like that! Ugh what a slag.”

“I know right, poor Raven…”

Jasper pretty much confirms it for him after lunch with a grim look. 

“Yeah. Apparently he was dating both of them at the same time,” he says and Bellamy makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat.

“I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be nice,” he snorts, pushing around a few grains of rice on his plate.

He shrugs. “Finn was nice. He just turned out to be a douche,” he explains before turning back to his food, leaving Bellamy alone with his thoughts.

Now, walking along the grounds in the watery mid afternoon sun, he realises just how much of douche Finn Collins is when he sees Clarke, alone underneath the big oak tree near to the Black Lake.

She couldn’t hide if she wanted to. Not with that deep emerald green cloak and hair that looks like the only bit of sunshine to be found during these winter days.

“Clarke?” he calls out, taking a few steps closer to her.

Her back noticeably stiffens even as Roland trots through the snow to come and rub against his legs. “Go away Bellamy.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, bending down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“Just fucking peachy,” she says bitterly.

Bellamy picks up Roland, who goes without protests, rubbing his flattened face against his jaw, and walks over to where Clarke sits, the snow crunching underneath his boots. She doesn’t look at him when he sits next to her, not even when his old man knees creaks as he lowers himself.

“Good old Romeo here came over to say hi,” he says, scratching underneath his chin. “Thought I’d bring him back before he decides to follow me back to the tower again.”

“His name is  _ Roland _ ,” she says, with just a bit of that familiar fire. “And thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, trying not to stare at her. There are tear tracks on her cheeks and her eyes are rimmed red. “Clarke--”

“If you’re here to tell me I’m a dumb, cheating slut, then get on with it,” she snaps, trying and failing to glare at him.

“I was going to say,” he says slowly, “That Finn Collins is a real dick. You and Raven didn’t deserve that.”

She blinks at him. And then, “You’re friends with her, right?”

“Who, Raven?” She nods and he worries his lip for a moment. “Not exactly. We have share a library table sometimes and help each other out with our essays from time to time.”

Raven Reyes was a muggleborn, like him, and they bonded over the usefulness of pens and the internet but Bellamy would say that it was a stretch to call them  _ friends _ .

“Did you know? About her and Finn?”

He hesitates for a minute. “I didn’t not know,” he says slowly, “Finn was the one who told her about magic. They grew up together and they’ve always been close but I didn’t know they were dating.”

“He told me they weren’t,” she says bitterly, “He said that they were just friends and I was an idiot to believe him.”

“He was an idiot to lie to you,” he tells her.

“I’m still an idiot too though.”

“Maybe,” he allows and her head snaps over to look at him. “You are an idiot about a lot of things, but not for this.”

She snorts. “Thanks. Trust Bellamy Blake for a good pep talk.”

“I’m serious,” he says, bumping his shoulder into hers lightly. “Honestly, the Clarke Griffin I know would have already hexed his pathetic arse seven ways to Sunday, not be out here sitting by the lake crying.”

“I’m allowed to be emotional you dick. Especially since everyone hates me.”

“Everyone doesn’t hate you.”

“Murphy made a banner that said ‘Clarke Griffin is a slag’ and hung it up in the common room.”

“Well that’s just Murphy. Guy’s face is made for punching,” he says and she giggles. “And everyone doesn’t hate you. Wells doesn’t hate you. Neither do Monty and Jasper.”

“You hate me.”

Bellamy looks at her, stunned. “You think I hate you?”

“You don’t?”

“I think you’re a privileged, selfish prat sometimes but I don’t hate you,” he says, reaching to pet Roland when he butts his head against his palm.

Clarke leans back against the tree, closing her eyes as she runs her fingers through Roland’s thick fur.

“I don’t hate you either,” she says softly and he hides his grin within the collar of his shirt.

Later, Finn Collins would end up in the hospital wing covered in boils that were so bad that he was almost unrecognisable. He didn’t get a good look at his attacker, and Clarke Griffin would claim that she was sitting down by the lake when it happened and Bellamy Blake would vouch for her, corroborating her alibi.

* * *

Bellamy spends Christmas at home.

He and Octavia decorate the house with those cheap, one dollar lengths of tinsel and streamers, and hang candy canes on the Christmas tree while their mother sews them new stockings. 

Christmas is usually a quiet affair at the Blake residence. His mother always knits them new jumpers and Octavia’s gifts are always those little cheap toys you can get at the gumball machine. She gives Bellamy an elephant and their mother gets a lynx. Bellamy gifts them with some things that he picked up at Hogsmeade, an enchanted set of needles for his mother and a self inking quill for Octavia that changes colours as you write.

It’s just after lunch when he’s lounging in his bedroom reading one of his worn paperback books that there’s a scratching sound by his window. He looks up to find a large snowy owl perched outside and Athena screeches at it from inside her cage.

He doesn’t recognise it but lets it inside nonetheless, scratching its head and feeding it a treat as he tries to untie the envelope attached to it. Athena is none to pleased at having some stranger eat her snacks and she nips Bellamy’s fingers when he slips her a treat through the bars of her cage. The owl flies off as soon as he gets the letter off, clearly not waiting for a reply.

The envelope is thick and heavy and has a wax seal at the front with a crest he doesn’t recognise. What he does recognise though is the neat, loopy cursive at the back which his name is written in.

When her finally gets it open he finds a Christmas card, enchanted to show fresh snow falling in a forest.

_ Dear Bellamy _ , it reads,

_ I found a dungbomb in my trunk when I returned home. My mother was less than pleased when it exploded in our tea room. I suspect you got Roland to sneak it in there, though heaven knows how he managed to understand you. I do not appreciate you using my own cat against me. _

_ Thanks again for helping escape detention last term. Anya would have made me scrub all the bedpans if she could prove it was me who sent Finn there and we both know I’d be terrible at that. _

_ Hope you have a good Christmas. _

_ I still don’t hate you, _ _  
_ _ Your friend, Clarke. _

He’s stunned for a second, just staring at the card.

The Christmas card that Clarke Griffin sent him.

Bellamy finds a stack of generic, muggle cards in the drawer downstairs and scrawls out his response, claiming innocence for the dungbomb and telling her Finn Collins deserved what he got and worse. He sends the card off with Athena and she returns just after sundown.

The card Clarke sent remains on his desk until he goes back to Hogwarts.

The train is always less crowded during its Christmas run due to the fact that some people floo or apparate to Hogsmeade instead of taking it, not to mention that a fair amount of students stay in Hogwarts over the holidays anyway.

He walks along the corridor, searching for an empty compartment when he stumbles onto an open one occupied by Clarke. 

Clarke and Raven that is.

He probably stands in the doorway gaping at them like an idiot for a whole minute. Clarke’s cheeks are flushed and she seems more preoccupied by a piece of lint in her lap than looking anywhere in his direction.

“Clarke wrote me a letter,” says Raven in response to the unasked question, and Bellamy glances over at Clarke.

“Yeah, she seems keen on doing things like that,” he says, sounding a bit choked and Clarke changes the subject by asking everyone how their Christmasses went.

He decides to stay, and soon they’re joined by Wells followed by Monty and Jasper and finally Miller.

He doesn’t know it yet, but these people, the ones currently daring each other to eat the most disgusting flavours of Bertie Botts, are going to all be his soon enough.

Bellamy goes from mostly studying alone in the library to always having Wells, or Raven, or Clarke right there with him. The entire school seems to be holding their breath after Zoe Monroe walks in on the two of them arguing over Arithmancy answers together.

Bellamy and Clarke arguing and ending it by hexing each other? Normal.

Bellamy and Clarke arguing about schoolwork and being mostly civil to each other? Unheard of.

“The level of investment the school has in my social life is weird,” he grumbles one afternoon when their all cooped up in the history section of the library.

Clarke snorts. “I mean, I can jinx you if you want. Give them something to talk about.”

He shoots her a baleful glare. “I’m good thanks.”

“You sure? I’m thinking horns. It might make your hair look decent for once. Maybe even a tail.”

“If you’re trying to hex Bellamy into looking like the devil then that’s just plain unoriginal, Griffin,” says Raven, scratching out a line on her Ancient Runes scroll. “I do that to Murphy like every week.”

Clarke nods, serious. “You’re right. Maybe I should give him a beak instead.”

“I’ll peck your liver out,” he threatens and she grins at him.

“See? I don’t know why Hogwarts is suddenly weirded out by us. Nothing much has changed,” she says, swinging an arm around his shoulders. He shrugs her off and sends a jelly legs jinx her way which she’s quick to block and Clarke hexes his hair blue.

“Yeah,” snorts Wells with a roll of his eyes. “Nothing has changed.”

Eventually, as the snow melts, so does everyone’s newfound interest in Bellamy and Clarke, and by mid February they’re considered old news.

Still, their relationship doesn’t change that much.

They still argue and bicker and fight, hexing each other in the hallways, but now there’s a more playful quality to it now and no one has to worry about getting sent to the hospital wing.

“I still can’t believe how bad you are at Potions,” he tells her as he hurries to remix the armadillo bile for the wit sharpening potion they’re currently working on. According to the textbook the potion is supposed to be yellow at this stage, not the dark green mess that was currently sitting in their cauldron.

“What? Sorry,” she says, flushing slightly as she moves to chop some more ginger root.

Bellamy shoots her a sidelong glance. “Quite daydreaming, Griffin, and hand me the scarab beetles.”

The flush on her cheeks darken. “I’m not daydreaming,” she snaps at him, shoving the jar of scarab beetles into his chest.

“Mhmm, sure,” he says with a roll of his eyes and she shoves him again for good measure.

“Ready for the game on Saturday?” he asks her when they’re cleaning up their station, having gotten a solid nine out of ten for their potion. 

She gives a half shrug, saying nothing and Bellamy stares at her suspiciously.

“Seriously, what has gotten into you?” he asks as he sweeps beetle shells into his palm. “Usually by now you’d be blabbing off about  _ batching _ or something like that.”

“It’s called  _ blatching _ ,” she corrects him absentmindedly and he catches her glancing behind them. When he follows her gaze he sees her staring at Niylah who was laughing at something Mbege said.

“Are you looking at  _ Niylah _ ?”

She jumps. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, voice going shrill, and she stuffs the rest of her potions ingredients in her bags. “Gotta get to Herbology before Pike docks more points from us. I’ll see you around.”

And then she disappears, clearing out of the dungeons before even half the class is finished bottling their potions. Bellamy just shakes his head.

“Subtle,” he says to the empty air that occupied the space where she stood seconds before.

It pretty much slips his mind after that, and by the time Bellamy meets her in the library after dinner, he’s all but forgotten about it and Clarke is back to her usual snarky self.

Later, when they’re working on their DADA essays that Luna gave them for homework, Clarke broaches the topic again by asking, “So, uh, girls.”

He looks up at her from where he’s squinting at the parchment and lifts an eyebrow. “Girls?”

She looks supremely uncomfortable as she blushes. “I just-- you seem to date them a lot. Girls I mean.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I date them,” he says, “But yeah, I’ve gone out with a few.”

She nods. “Like Roma.”

“Er, yeah.” He peers at Clarke more closely, observing the way she fidgets with her hands. “What’s all this about?”

“I figured that you might be a bit more open minded about these things since muggleborns usually are, plus from what I heard it’s fine in the muggle world so--” she rambles on.

“Clarke,” he interrupts her, half amused, half worried. “Seriously, what’s up?”

She takes a deep breath.

“I think I like girls. Maybe,” she says, tacking on the maybe as an afterthought.

Bellamy pauses and blinks.

“Finn fucked you up that bad?” he asks, joking, and she throws a book at him. “Ow, Jesus, watch it Griffin.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, you dolt,” she says, her voice bordering on hysterical.

“Okay and? What do you want me to say?” he asks, “So you like girls, big whoop. Do you want me to bake you a cake or something?”

“That’s it?” she asks, stunned. “You’re not gonna question me about it?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Wells did when I first told him,” she admits, “He asked him how I knew I was sure and all of that.”

“How do you know you’re sure?” he promptly asks her and gets whacked with a scroll of parchment.

“I kissed Lexa Dubois during a Christmas party,” she admits, “We both had some Firewhiskey and I… didn’t not like it.”

Bellamy is only a little surprised at her admission. Lexa Dubois is a Ravenclaw fifth year who’s notorious for being rather stone cold and impersonal and as far as he knows, she doesn’t associate with any underclassmen. Or upperclassmen. Or basically anyone besides her three friends and whoever she’s put the fear of god into this week. But she is a pureblood, just like Clarke, so it makes sense that they would have known each other outside of school.

“Okay. So what, you want me to give you tips on how to ask her out or something?” he asks.

She flashes him a wry smile. “I tried that already. She turned me down. O.W.L.s are more important than a relationship right now.”

“Bitch,” Bellamy says mildly and Clarke struggles to hide her smile. “Do you want me to put snakes in her bed? I’m pretty sure I can manage to get some snakes in her bed.”

She’s fully smiling at him now and she laughs. “No it’s fine. I’ve moved on from it already.”

“Right.” He snaps his fingers. “Niylah.”

“Oh come on, it’s not that obvious,” she pouts, crossing her arms.

“Not at first but now that you’ve said that you’re into girls,” he teases, and Clarke shoves him.

“Shut up. I’m into guys too,” she says sullenly.

“Of course you are, I mean with men like me around how could you not be?” he says and Clarke mimes gagging.

“Gross. You’re a prime example as to why I should  _ not _ be attracted to men.”

“That is honestly the first time a woman has ever told me that.”

“Good. Like I said, I exist solely to deflate your ego.”

“So Niylah,” he says, steering the conversation back to its original topic. “Are you going to ask  _ her _ out?”

“I really don’t know,” says Clarke. “That’s why I came to you for advice.”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“You know,” she makes an incomprehensible gesture and Bellamy just stares at her until she huffs, frustrated. “You go out with girls without actually, you know,  _ going out with girls. _ I was hoping you’d tell me how to do that.”

“Oh well that’s easy enough. Just ask her,” he says.

“Just ask her?”

“Yep. If she’s into women too then I don’t know why she wouldn’t want to go out with you,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “You’re not half bad to look at.”

“Thanks,” she says, dry. “So I should just ask her if she wants to make out?”

“It’s a start yeah.”

“Great.”

Before the week is done the rumour mill is thriving with stories about how Clarke Griffin and Niylah Bosch got caught in the broom cupboard on the third floor and Bellamy makes fun of her when she hurries into potions one day with a hickey on her neck.

* * *

Spring arrives in April, bringing with it the excitement of the quidditch finals. The match is set between Hufflepuff and Slytherin and Clarke’s been working herself to the bone in her attempts to prepare for it.

“Wells told me to bully you into eating enough food,” Bellamy greets her one morning before class starts. “Apparently you’re not getting enough calories.”

She glowers at him. “I don’t need you and Wells to be my nanny,” she snaps and Bellamy lifts his hands up in surrender.

“Hey, I’m just passing along the message,” he tells her before tossing a buttered roll her way.

Clarke glares at him a little longer but eventually grabs the roll and eats it before Professor Luna calls the class to order.

Two weeks before the quidditch finals, Clarke and Niylah break up.

Or at least stop seeing each other. Bellamy isn’t quite sure that they were  _ together _ in the first place.

“She said that she doesn’t want a relationship,” Clarke tells him after he heard the news from Raven. Like with Lexa he offers to put snakes in her bed and again, she declines telling him that she has it handled. “Which is fine because it’s not like we were in a relationship, but then she said that she doesn’t want a relationship with  _ me _ specifically.”

“Harsh,” he says, trying to sneak a look at her Arithmancy worksheet.

“And then when I told her that I didn’t want a relationship either she just gave me this  _ look _ ,” she huffs, almost upending an inkwell in all her glorious rage. “Oh you say that now, but you’re a relationship person Clarke. Like what the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means she thinks you’re a relationship person, Clarke,” he deadpans.

“Haha very funny,” she says, steaming. “I am not a relationship person.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Relationships  _ suck _ and I am never going to be in one.”

“Good for you.”

“Never dating a man or woman or any other kind of mythical creature ever again.”

“Fantastic,” he drawls. “Now would you please hurry up and do number thirty seven? Either my charts are fucked up or I did something wrong because I’m not getting any of the options.”

Talk of the break up between Clarke and Niylah doesn’t last that long because before the week is up, quidditch fever is sweeping through the castle. At almost every corner you can find someone taking bets on who will win and Professor Anya even has to be called in once to get Murphy to dissolve his betting pool on when the snitch will be caught.

Match day sees Bellamy in the stands with his merry band of misfits, Monty and Jasper dressed in head to toe green and silver to support Clarke while Raven and Miller pretend not to know them. Even Wells joins in on the fun, wrapping both his Hufflepuff scarf and Clarke’s Slytherin one around his neck, despite the warm weather spring brings with it.

And then it’s game time, Roan standing in the middle of the field as Byrne and the Hufflepuff captain shake hands and then they’re off.

“You know,” Raven says to him a few minutes into the game, “I’ll never understand how you can live with those two,” she jerks her thumb towards Miller and Jasper who were yelling about stooging and blurting and other things that Bellamy will never understand, “And not be a quidditch fanatic.”

He just shrugs. “I mean, it’s a good game sometimes but it doesn’t really interest me all that much,” he says, cheering mildly when Clarke sinks the quaffle through the hoop to score the first goal of the game.

“Surprised Clarke hasn’t disowned you yet for saying those kinds of things,” she snorts.

“There’s a lot of other things that she could ‘disown me for’ besides not liking quidditch,” Bellamy points out and Raven just rolls her eyes.

“God, I swear you’re the only one she lets get away with all this shit. If it was any of us she would have already hexed us stupid.”

“You’re acting as if she doesn’t make my eyebrows disappear or give me a tail on a weekly basis.”

“Whatever, I’m done talking,” she says, throwing her hands up in exasperation and Bellamy just frowns even more.

“I honestly have no idea what you’re mad about.”

“Just shut up and watch the game, Bellamy.”

The game is surprisingly short but brutal. Clarke manages to net four goals in total before Murphy shoots off to the other end of the pitch, the Hufflepuff seeker hot on his tail. Byrne yells at her fellow chasers to focus and Clarke passes her the quaffle which she gets into the hoop, bringing the score up to one hundred.

Murphy pulls into a hairpin turn and the Hufflepuff chaser is a second too slow, almost careening into the crowd, but manages to right himself just in time. Not quick enough though, as Murphy pumps his fist in the air, the snitch tucked away safely inside.

The crowd roars with cheers and Bellamy is right there with them, cheering while Miller temporarily deafens him with his whistles.

Clarke is a blur of green and silver when they finally make it onto the field, pulling Wells into a hug as she shrieks with delight, and then turning to hug him as well.

Bellamy is shocked at first of the press of her body against his and for a moment he just stands there, body tense and eyes wide and his arms hanging uselessly at his sides before his brain finally kicks into gear and he hugs her back, almost lifting her off the ground with the force of it.

“Congratulations, princess,” he murmurs into a mouthful of her hair and she grins at him one last time before pulling Monty and Jasper into a hug too.

“I expect to see all of you at the party in the common room later,” she says breathlessly once she’s done sharing hugs. “The password is  _ callidus _ . Be there or else I’ll turn you into a toad.”

“Charming,” he says and Clarke tries to glare at him but she’s grinning too much to look properly menacing.

“Emerson and Cage were bragging about how they managed to sneak in an entire case of Firewhiskey,” she says, “I nicked a few bottles. Be nice to me or else I won’t share.”

“You’re a goddess among men, Clarke Griffin,” Jasper says in awe and she clicks her tongue at him.

They all go to the party later, despite not being Slytherins, and Bellamy promises that they’ll stick around for an hour or two before heading back to Gryffindor tower to avoid getting caught in the curfew.

Unlike his common room, the Slytherin one is much darker and sleeker, with high backed chairs and plush leather couches and crystal chandeliers that emit a silvery glow. Someone has enchanted a radio to play the greatest wizarding hits loud enough that the room practically pulses in time with the beat and there’s an array of finger foods laid out on the chess tables as well as buckets of butterbeer and of course Firewhiskey.

“You made it!” Clarke exclaims when she finally sees them, hurtling towards them at top speed. She crashes into Wells and Bellamy’s sides, her arms flung around their shoulders. In the past hour that they’ve all been apart since the match ended, she showered, washing off all the dirt and blood, and changed into a clean jumper and trousers. She smelled like lavender.

“You’re drunk,” says Wells, scrutinising her.

“Come on Wells, leave her be,” says Raven, “You’re not her mother.”

“She’s fifteen,” he says. “The legal age for drinking here is seventeen.”

She rolls her eyes. “I need to be drunk if this conversation is actually happening,” Raven declares before disappearing into the crowd.

“Do you think we can make our own version of Friewhiskey?” Monty says to Jasper as they both peer into a glass that they’ve somehow procured.

Jasper scratches his chin. “Maybe. It’s possible.”

They both look at each other and grin. “Summer project they say in unison.”

Bellamy spends most of the night nursing a butterbeer as he plays games and hangs out with the Slytherins that he actually likes, like Mbege and Murphy and Emori. They’re assholes but they’re the Clarke kind of asshole. Prickly in an affectionate way. Unlike the assholes that are Cage and Emerson and Tsing, who like to shoot him dirty looks and sling slurs at him under their breaths.

Eventually Clarke pulls him away to play drinking games with her and Raven and Wells, and he ends up doing a shot of Firewhiskey, wincing as it burns all the way down. She makes fun of him for it and Bellamy jinxes her drink so that she hiccups bubbles.

“There you are,” Clarke says, sidling up to him a little while later. They’ve been at the party for a few hours now and the sun has just started to set. Bellamy’s broken away from the main part of the party to stand by the windows in an alcove, the ones that expose the Black Lake, and he watches how the last bits of the sun’s rays cast interesting shadows in the water that are reflected onto the stone floor.

“I thought you left,” she says, not having to yell quite as much to be heard over the music.

“Nah, just taking a breather,” he says before draining the last of his butterbeer.

“You enjoyed the game?” she asks, stumbling over the words a little bit and he narrows his eyes.

“Are you  _ drunk _ ?” he asks and Clarke gives a girlish little giggle which definitely answers that question. Clarke Griffin does not giggle.

“Maybe,” she drawls, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she leans against the wall.

Bellamy shakes his head, grinning. “You are going to be in such a sorry state tomorrow.”

She tips her head back and laughs. “I’ll be fine. We won.”

“Yeah, you won,” he smiles down at her.

“I’m an amazing chaser,” she croons, “The  _ best. _ You think I’m the best, right Bellamy?”

“I think you should drink some water,” he tells her because as entertaining as this is, he rather see her drink at least one glass of water before she passes out on the couch or something. He tries to pull her along but she stands surprisingly firm for someone completely messed up already.

“Wait,” she says, tugging him forward so that their toes are touching. “I think you’re the best.”

And then she’s leaning up and kissing him.

Bellamy freezes under her touch.

It’s not the best kiss he’s ever had, she’s far too sloppy and her nose keeps bumping into his and she’s  _ drunk _ for crying out loud. So drunk that he can taste the Firewhiskey that lingers on her tongue when she flicks it at his lips, and he shivers when her nails scratch against his scalp.

He doesn’t get to kiss her back because as quick as she leans forward to press her lips against his, she’s gone, running her fingers through the tangled knots in her hair and going on about something that his brain can’t seem to process.

“... should probably drink the water,” is what he hears when his brain finally catches up.

“Right,” he says dumbly. “I should probably get going. Curfew and all that.”

“Oh yeah,” she nods, seemingly very serious. “Don’t want to get that detention. I’ll see you around, Bellamy!”

She flounces off before he can say anything else and Bellamy is left standing gobsmacked in the tiny alcove.

Clarke Griffin just  _ kissed  _ him.

He kissed  _ Clarke Griffin _ .

Suddenly Bellamy feels as though he’s the one that drank his body weight in Firewhiskey and he sags against the wall to try and get a hold of his bearings.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters to himself, rubbing the space between eyebrows.

Bellamy is careful to avoid Clarke over the next couple of days, trying to limit their interactions to group settings only. He feels weirdly on edge about the whole thing but, after a few days, it becomes clear to him that she doesn’t remember the kiss at all.

Which is fine.

He wouldn’t want her to remember it anyway.

(He doesn’t say anything to their friends either and no one hints at knowing about it.)

“How drunk were you at the after party?” he asks her while they’re trying to study for their upcoming Arithmancy final.

Clarke groans, letting her head drop onto the heavy textbook in front of her. “Drunk enough that I never want to see Firewhiskey ever again,” she mumbles. “I don’t even want to  _ smell  _ it.”

He reaches over to awkwardly pat her shoulder. “You have no one but yourself to blame for this.”

“Shut up, Blake.”

Finals pass in a sticky haze and Bellamy manages to pass all of his classes, even Arithmancy despite Shumway’s best efforts to fail them all. By the time the end of term feast rolls around Bellamy has all but forgotten about the one drunken kiss he shared with Clarke in a dark corner of the Slytherin common room. And it’s not like Clarke remembered it in the first place so he finally decides to let it go.

(Try as he might, he can’t forget the lavender of her skin or the sticky, artificial flavour of strawberries from her lips tinged by the bitterness of alcohol.)

Just like the trip back from the Christmas holidays, Bellamy finds himself in a compartment with Clarke and the others. Raven, Miller, Jasper and Monty are spread out on the floor playing exploding snap and Wells sits above them, pretending to read but in reality helping Raven by telling her all of Jasper’s cards.

Clarke is dozing on the bench opposite him, with her head cushioned by Wells’ cloak and her feet tucked up underneath her. Roland is asleep on Bellamy’s lap, purring slightly, and for the first time in a long while he feels content, letting the warmth bloom in his chest as he looks at their little group over the beaten cover of his book.

**Author's Note:**

> you can yell at me on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com)


End file.
